


An Invite to Dance

by bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry Potter, Banter, Draco is sort of an outlaw, Duelling, Emotionally Repressed, Enemies, Fun, Harry is a sheriff, Innuendo, Insults, M/M, One Shot, Outlaw, POV Draco Malfoy, Saloons, Sheriff - Freeform, Western, Western AU, cat and mouse game, gratuitous innuendo, they clearly have a thing going on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-23
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-26 20:08:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14409678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23/pseuds/bottseveryflavorbeans_jrayoh23
Summary: This is a Western AU where Draco (Drake Mal) has stolen a gun, his gun, back from Harry ( Golden Harold Potts).Drake has been on the run, trying to stay ahead of Golden Harold Potts, but each time he thinks he’s outrun the sheriff, he finds himself face to face with his foe. Golden Harold caught up to him and interrupted his drink, so they duel.





	An Invite to Dance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Forgetticus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Forgetticus/gifts).



> This was just a fun exercise in writing in a style that it’s outside of my comfort zone. It’s playful and I had the most fun Western-ing up their names and stuff. Also, I had fun with the jargon. 
> 
> All in all, it was fun to write and so I wanted to share it with you all. :P

The door to The Leaky Trough Saloon swung open hard enough that the crack of wood on wood rang through the room like the crack of a whip. Drake Mal stayed stiller than stone. He had known it was only a matter of time, but he had figured he would have enough of a break for a stiff drink and a good night's rest in the shabby inn across the way. Lady Luck never was on his side though.

With his back to the door, Drake clutched his drink in one hand and his other slid inside of his jacket to rest on his Hawthorne SSU. The cold metal under his fingers reassured him and so he lifted his drink to his mouth, swung his head back and let the nasty, harshness of the alcohol warm his chest. 

Throwing a few coins on the bar, Drake winked at the bartender, an old yellow-toothed man whose beard was crusted with dirt and possibly vomit. “I reckon I’m done here.” The bartender only grunted and scooped up the coins, mumbling something about  _ mail-order cowboy _ . 

In response, a voice Drake hoped he would never hear again after their last unfortunate meetup ‘round Godric’s Hollow spoke up from behind him. “Yer done when  _ I _ says yer done.” The familiar baritone made Drake’s chest tighten. He couldn’t show it, however, because the second he let on that hearing Golden Harold Potts voice shook him to his core was the second he would find himself locked up behind the irons. 

“Is that right?” Drake turned, steel-faced, to meet the gaze of his old foe. It had been a month since he even laid eyes on Golden Harold. He honestly thought he might have lost him last time. There had been a moment on the road when Drake cleverly disguised himself as a young woman and managed to hop on a wagon with a very obliging family who nearly tried to marry him to their eldest son. 

He stayed hidden with them for a fortnight and thought Golden Harold was off his trail, but Drake was wrong because here he was—haggard-looking and ready to tumble. Drake’s only solace was that weeks of chasing after him through the dusty terrain hadn’t done ole Golden Boy any favors. He looked weather-worn and plum tired. His clothes seemed like they hadn’ been washed in a year. 

His cowhide vest was caked with clay and dust. His tan pants were stained reddish-brown instead of the tan they were at the beginning of their little tête-à-tête. His boots were covered in mud from hoofin’ it through town after the heavy rain earlier. And his hat was torn up something awful ‘round the brim. 

To match to weariness of his clothes, Golden Harold’s face had an over-worn look to it, too. His eyes sunken deep in the sockets. Dark circles underneath, making him look near to madness. And maybe he was. After all, he’d have to be to drop everything he had back in Hogsmeade Square, a life—a family, just to chase down a petty thief like Drake Mal who, far as Drake felt, didn’ merit any kind of attention, let alone the sole devotion of a legendary sheriff chasin’ his hide for a silly gun that belonged to Drake in the first place. 

Much to Drake’s chagrin, the tiredness did nothing to dampen the effect of Golden Harold’s eyes. Greener than the greenest pastures and more fierce than a coyote hunting down it’s prey. They watched Drake now. 

Under the scrutiny of Golden Harold’s gaze, Drake tightened his grip on the Hawthorne SSU. It felt alive under his fingers, and he watched Golden Harold finger his own gun, a Pheonix Holly-tip. It hung at his hip. It was still holstered, but Drake new better than to underestimate the quickness of Golden Harold’s draw. Drake, like many others at the Battle of the Hog, saw Golden Harold outdraw Mort the Riddler, who had been the most afeared roughneck during the war. With one single shot, Golden Harold took down the most notorious law-breaker Drake had ever heard of, so he knew his chances of out-gunning Ole Golden Boy were ‘bout slim to none. 

Breaking the silent tension, Golden Harold said, “Ye think I’mma jus’ let ye wander among the willows after what ye done?” As he said this, his eyes flicked around the saloon, taking in the surroundings. It was a quick, measured look. One that Drake knew to mean he was looking for the least damaging way to capture him. The saloon was empty save the old bartender, who was eyeing them both anxiously, and a few painted ladies and their patrons, who didn’ seem to notice them at all. 

The chase had been fun for a while—Drake would find the most obscure towns and hideaway there until Golden Harold caught up, but Drake was getting tired of their cat and mouse game. Still standing near the bar, Drake slowly backed up, reached over the ledge with his free hand and wrapped it around the neck of whichever bottle was closest. If this was it, he wanted to at least go out drunker than a skunk. He uncorked it one-handed and swigged down the hot liquid. It felt like dragons breath all the way down. It was a testament to Golden Harold’s sense of nobility that he didn’ take a cheap shot while Drake was distracted.

When he was done swigging, Drake licked his lips and answered, “Precisely. That is precisely what I expect you to do, Sheriff.”

A deep chuckled rumbled from the belly of the sheriff. His dirt-caked face stretched into a almost pleasant smile—his tanned skin stretched tight like hide. “Well, well, ye got another thing comin’ if ye think it will be that simple to get by the likes of me.” His hand hovered over the holster, twitching. His jaw set tight. 

“Are you finally challenging me to a  _ fair _ duel, dear Sheriff? We both know you cheated last time,” Drake said in a playful tone. Smirking, he offered the bottle forward for the sheriff, knowing he wouldn’ take it. Golden Harold shook his head in disgust. 

Drake learned very early on that the only thing that shook up the sheriff was playful banter. It was almost like Golden Harold couldn’ resist biting back with a remark or insult. And usually if Drake could get him talking long enough, he could escape by the hair on his chin. 

“You blame fancy men are all the same,” Golden Harold said. He spit on the ground between them. “Too big fur yer britches, I says. I don’ duel with self-importan’ men like yerself. I arrest them, ye see?”

“You think you can cuff me?” Drake asked. He was stalling for time still.  He cursed himself for not getting the layout of the saloon before sitting down to drink. He had just been so blame tired. To his dismay, there were a few tables between him and the sheriff, who stood directly in front of the only exit. 

Hand still twitching over his gun, Golden Harold smiled revealing the yellowed teeth of a country roughneck. “I don’ think it, I knows it.” 

“Well, bully for you, Sheriff. Let’s see what the likes of you can do, eh?” With those words, Drake pulled his gun from it’s holster and aimed it at the sheriff, who was as quick as Drake remembered. Within seconds, Drake was staring down the barrel of Golden Harold’s Pheonix Holly-tip. The silver was tarnished from everyday use, but the intricate carvings of a deer on the sides were still clear ‘nuff.  It seemed to be prancing forward as if would be shot out of the gun, not a bullet. 

Drake knew he was outmatched if they started shooting, but he also knew how many rounds were in Golden Harold’s gun. If he could get behind the bar and get Golden Harold to shoot off his load, then he could fight his way to the door. 

Chest tight, Drake breathed out and let off a warning shot. It landed in the wall behind Golden Harold, who for the briefest second looked to see where it landed. This gave Drake the time he needed to hop behind the bar. The small number of patrons and the bartender all yelped and hollered. They scampered toward the door and  Drake heard them warn passersby not to enter the saloon. Probably for the best. 

Once behind the thick wooden bar, Drake crouched down. There was a small bottle of the good stuff, Firestarter Whiskey. The stuff he hadn’t been able to afford since his family’s business went belly up in the war. He snatched it up and guzzled down as much as he could before felling like his insides were lava. 

“That’s some slick shootin, fancy man. They teach you that at the University?” Golden Harold called out. He sounded closer. He must’ve moved while Drake jumped behind the bar. Exactly what Drake hoped would happen. Now he just needed to get on the other side of the saloon without a bullet in his gut.  

“Matter of fact, yes.” Hopping up from behind the bar, Drake let off two more shots without looking. He ducked in the knick of time. Golden Harold shot off two rounds. They shattered the mirror behind the bar. Pieces of glass fell at his feet. Drake eyed the bullet holes. They were exactly where his head had been moments ago. He felt sweat starting to coat his brow and trickle down his neck. 

“It ‘taint gonna be enough to get yer sorry ass outta here.” Golden Harold sounded like he was pacing. His boots clicked on the wooden floor like a warning—like a rattlesnake making it’s enemy aware it was dangerous. But Drake didn’ need no warning to know how dangerous Golden Harold was—he had firsthand experience.

“Do you always underestimate your better looking opponents?” Drake called from behind the bar. The alcohol was kicking in and giving him that reckless feeling he lived for—it was that recklessness that got him this far. It was what got him inside the sheriff’s home back in Godric’s Hollow. It’s what got him his gun back. Now, it would be what got him on the right side of that door. 

A loud laugh escaped Golden Harold and he shouted, “Better lookin’ than what? An opossum's back end?” Amusement clear in his voice. Not for the first time did Drake suspect this chase was enjoyable for the legendary sheriff. He seemed the kind of man to get restless easy. And with the quiet that came after winning the war, maybe good ole Golden Harold Potts needed this. 

“I didn’t realize that your self-esteem was so low, Sheriff. I’d reckon you look more like the back end of a donkey than anything.” Drake reached up and shot his gun without looking. He made sure to shoot up. His aim wasn’ to actually wound the sheriff, just to get past him. If he ended up killing the most beloved sheriff, he would have a bounty on his head larger than the Atlantic Ocean. He would never get a moments peace again in his life. 

A shot returned his. It hit the bar. Drake heard it make its way into the thick wood. By his count that was three shots which left three more. 

“Why don’ ye do the clean thing and turn yerself in?” Golden Harold asked. He seemed to sincerely think this was an option. It almost made Drake want to turn himself in—almost, but with everything he did during the war...well, like Golden Harold’s deputy, Red Weasley, was so kind as to remind him at the last town meeting—no one wanted Drake ‘round. That is when he decided to stop pretending that his crimes could be pardoned and stole away into Golden Harold’s house to steal back his gun—the last reminder of his old self, his old life. No point in surrendering himself to the mercy of people who would only ever see him as an outlaw. 

“What would be the fun in that?” Drake reached up and shot again. He was running out of bullets, but so was Golden Harold.

“Not fun,  _ noble _ .” Two shots returned. One in the shattered mirror and another hit the bottle of whiskey Drake had left on the counter. The alcohol dripped off the bar. The saloon was quiet enough that Drake heard the drip, drip of the liquid on the floor. 

“You think me noble, Sheriff? High praise, but it is sorely misplaced. You must be cracked if you think I will just give up.” Drake reached around the bar again and shot his last shot. 

Golden Harold shot in return and then Drake heard the empty click of a gun without bullets. Golden Harold cussed like a dockworker. Before he could think twice, Drake hopped from behind the bar and threw his weight into a punch that landed square on Golden Harold’s jaw. 

It must’ve took Golden Harold by surprise because he stumbled backward and fell into an empty chair. The wooden legs scratched against the floor like nails on a chalkboard. 

Drake felt his heart pounding against his ribs. It hadn’ been the most honorable thing to sucker-punch the sheriff, but desperate times. Plus, Drake was sure the look of shock on Golden Harold’s face was near the most amusing thing he ever laid eyes upon. 

Before he had anymore time to savor that moment, the sheriff was up, fists raised. “Lucky, shot. Ye won’ get that lucky twice.”

“I’ll take that bet, sheriff.” Draco winked and bounced on the balls of his feet ready to lunge forward. The silence in the saloon was full of everything unsaid between them. Drake knew slipping away under the cover of darkness had been the cowards way out. He never expected Golden Harold to follow him. He expected to fade away into the background of everyone’s minds. Then he could take up in some nowhere town and drink himself to an early grave. 

An old resentment from their childhood bubbled up from Drake’s gut—something he never let himself chew on. A rejection. He felt himself get angry at the memory. Angry that Golden Harold couldn’ admit this chase wasn’ about the gun, or honor, or any of it. It spread through his body and he pulled back and released another punch. It landed lamely on Golden Harold’s shoulder. He had been ready for that one. 

Even though the punch was lame, it unleashed a flood between the pair of them. Drake lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Golden Harold’s waist pulling him down to the floor. They landed with a thud. A few chairs knocked over in their tumble to the floor. 

The wind was knocked out of Drake. He shook his head and tried to gulp in air. Underneath him, Golden Harold struggled and groaned. It was now or never, Drake thought. He scrambled, trying to get to his feet and run for the door, but his efforts were thwarted when Golden Harold landed a uppercut to Drake’s jaw. 

He felt his teeth smash together and tasted blood. The pain was like being kicked by an angry mare. Then in a blur of limbs, Golden Harold fought to find purchase on Drake’s hips in order to flip them over. Drake struggled against his hands. And landed a few good punches while Golden Harold tried to push him off. 

Giving up on trying to flip them, Golden Harold grabbed up and pulled at Drake’s hair. He cursed himself for putting off cutting it. In the months of being on the lam, Drake had let it get wild. It was nearly past his shoulders. Even tucked under a hat, he knew his blonde hair was a bullseye, but he couldn’ bring himself to cut it because on occasion, he could hideout as a woman. His facial features were delicate enough that no one ever questioned him if he played the damsel. It got him out of as many scrapes as it got him into. 

Now especially, he hated that he left it long because Golden Harold had a good grip on it and was yanking his head back with one hand and landing blow after blow to Drake’s rib cage. The pain was like a cattle prod burning into his flesh. He was certain a one of his ribs cracked after the last punch. 

Drake twisted his head around and bit down, hard, on Golden Harold’s hand. Hard enough to break the skin and taste the mix of copper and dirt. With a yelp, Golden Harold let go. Drake took this moment to scramble to his feet.

When he stood up he saw that he managed to get on the side of the door. Through the pain of his broken rib, Drake laughed. It was a wild laugh like out of a ghost story told ‘round the fire. He felt like a man possessed. 

Golden Harold stood afore him and wiped blood from his lower lip. His fierce green eyes were narrowed. In spite of himself, Drake thought that Golden Harold definitely looked the part of noble sheriff and he wore his wounds like accessories. They complimented his roughneck with a moral code look. A black eye only made him look tougher. 

Out of breath, Drake smirked and immediately regretted it because his jaw lit up with pain. It was worth it though because nothing stood between him and the door now. Inching backward, Drake laughed as he spoke. “Almost, Sheriff, but you forgot one tiny thing…”

“An’ what’s that then?” Golden Harold asked. He bared his teeth and Drake saw the blood coating them. 

“You forgot to watch the door,” Drake answered and turned on his heels and ran for it. He felt giddy, but maybe that was the alcohol and adrenaline from almost getting caught that time. Either way, Drake knew that whatever scrap of a town he ended up in next, Golden Harold would be there and they could finish this for once an’ for all. 

Until then, Drake would keep trying to outrun the setting sun. 

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
